


I think I've had enough of hard mornings.

by meganbloomfield



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, fuck ross from friends, post-AWTWB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25184488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganbloomfield/pseuds/meganbloomfield
Summary: Simon breathed into the fabric of the fresh, white towel, and it filled him with the memories of using it, paired with the scent of the fabric softener and the lingering traces of Baz’s cologne from when he was the one carrying and folding from the basket.“Snow?”Simon turned his head slightly, over to Baz, who sat on the step with an eyebrow cocked and a confused half-smile spread across his lips. “What are you doing?”“I’ve…’”Simon began, unsure what he was doing. “I’ve missed this.”“Missed what?”Simon glanced at the basket in his lap. “Fresh laundry.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106





	I think I've had enough of hard mornings.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lu_marii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lu_marii/gifts).



> Hey guys, it's me, back again with another steaming slice of bullshit. I hope you enjoy this! It's for my favorite clone ever, Lu (luciimariiellii) love you cii!! I'm so sorry!!
> 
> Title and snippet of lyrics at the beginning come from 'Fresh Laundry' by Allie X- and definitely stream that song! I adore it, and her.

_ You said you’re always on my side, _

_ But what if my side has changed too much? _ _   
_ _ Then, tell me, who am I? _

_ You said you're always on my side, _

_ But what if my side has lived too long?  
Something has to die. _

**_-Allie X, “Fresh Laundry,” 2k19-_ **

  
  


Simon Snow was losing his  _ mind. _

All right, perhaps that was a bit dramatic. Simon Snow was losing his mind. No need for italics. But that’s how Simon thought. With  _ italics  _ and in  **bold** and with Capital Letters and Exclamation Points! and Question Marks? and the occasional emoji. And many of his thoughts read like Donald Trump tweets with the Random Capitalization and ™ symbols. 

Anyway, Simon Snow was losing his mind. 

In a heap of blankets at the end of Baz’s bed, with an incredibly soft pillow under his head, hugging his knees and breathing in the scent of Baz’s cologne mixed with his own shampoo, plus a lingering hue of minty tea, comfortable as he’d ever been, Simon Snow was losing his mind™.

This was standard, anyway. He was always losing his mind. He was always fearful that every good thing would pass him by quicker than he could blink. He was always certain that he was losing everything he loved, always certain that when he had something that  _ mattered,  _ something that would  _ kill him  _ if he lost it, it’d be gone before he could say “cherry scones.”

_ When someone shows you who they are, believe them. _

But this was different. A domestic moment in a life of chaos, fear, run-for-your-life situations, adrenaline rushes, learning to drive while your best friend was getting dumped twenty metres away, and general murder. In one domestic, comfortable moment, in a warm heap of blankets, breathing in the air tainted with life —  _ his and Baz’s life  _ — Simon was feeling more scared of losing what he’d loved more than anything — moments like these where he felt safe and loved in between the moments of murder and chaos — than he actually felt scared  _ during  _ said chaos.

After everything, after the Humdrum and the Mage and NowNext and the attacks on Watford, after saving the day time after time after time, Simon Snow was safe, warm, and scared out of his mind.

He could beat Humdrums, psychotic pseudo-parents who turn out to be your  _ actual  _ parents, hipster vampires and he could brave attacks on the one home he’d ever known, but Simon Snow was defeated by the great monster that is depression.

_ How fucking ironic is that?  _ Simon wondered to himself.  _ How did I get here, and still be unable to focus on anything other than the bad side of life? _

Barely paying attention to the  _ Friends  _ rerun playing on Baz’s TV, (Ross was being a fucker again) Simon counted his breaths as his new (really old, but he liked to pretend that after three months of talking to her, he hadn’t just given up on therapy as a whole and fucked off into a depressive state for five whole months) therapist had instructed him to whenever he caught himself in the midst of a panic attack. Well, not really a panic attack. More of a pre-panic attack. Panic! While Getting Ready To Go To The Disco, as Simon referred to it in his head. 

_ What is causing you to panic at the moment, Simon?  _ He was channeling his therapist but hearing Penelope’s voice echoing inside his head.

Likely, at the moment, it was something he didn’t actually want to admit to anyone other than himself, and even then he didn’t want to think of it. According to the daily emails he received from thoughtsfromtheuniverse.org, Thoughts Become Things. Choose The Good Ones.

Baz had gone to get breakfast. After a lazy morning in bed  _ (they’d woken up together, and Simon was shocked by how regular it all felt)  _ Baz had offered that they went out for breakfast, then shot down his own idea. 

_ “Saturday rush,” he’d said. “We’d be waiting until lunch just for a table. What if I went to get something from that bakery you’re always talking up, down on Carnaby?” _

_ “You’d do that?” Simon had asked. Baz rolled his eyes. _

_ “Don’t sound so surprised, Snow. Besides, you compliment that bloody bakery more than you do me,” he’d teased, pushing out from under the grey duvet and sorting through his closet. Simon had sat up beside him and followed him to the closet. _

_ “Thank you,” Simon said shyly, kissing Baz on the shoulder. Baz tensed up for a split second only to turn around and kiss Simon back, far less shyly. After everything, they felt more… comfortable together. Suddenly. Or maybe not-so-suddenly. Maybe they’d finally figured out the secret to loving each other without it feeling like being ripped apart every time you weren’t in each other’s eyes. Or every time you were. But they felt real now. It reminded Simon of the children’s book about the velveteen rabbit, where the rabbit wants nothing more than to be real. _

_ Simon and Baz were finally real. _

But Baz had been gone for almost an  _ hour  _ now, and yes, Saturday rush can get crazy in inner-city London, but he was  _ walking,  _ and for fuck’s sake it’s just Carnaby and back, and what if something had happened or he’d been attacked or

_ one two three four breathe _

Simon’s biggest, greatest worry, the source of so many panic attacks, the trigger for much of his post-traumatic stress, was the idea that he’d lose something — or someone — he loved by a force that most normals fear of losing their loved ones to. 

After surviving everything they had, wouldn’t it be so  _ fucking  _ ironic if Baz just had a wrecking ball from a nearby construction site drop on his head or if Penny just got cancer or Agatha just got in a car accident or

All of the sudden, a knock at the door forced Simon to venture out from his fortress and every atom inside of him was screaming that it’s a policeman here to tell him that the love of his life is no longer 50% alive because why in the  _ fuck  _ would Baz knock on his  _ own goddamn door? _

When he’s forgotten his keys and Simon, anxious bastard that he is, locks the door .000001 seconds after he’s left the flat.

Once Baz, vividly dead, was situated at the table talking about how foot traffic on a Saturday morning in London is understandably and annoyingly intense for such a chilly day, Simon began to feel the embarrassment creeping in.

_ You thought he was  _ dead?  _ You idiot, can he even die? _

_ You worry over the stupidest things. _

_ Maybe if you stopped worrying over shit that couldn’t matter less if you balled it up and sat on it and started worrying about important things you would never have ended up where you were before _

_ Every day on the couch _

_ Every moment, soaked in bitter regret _

_ In loss _

_ In loneliness _

_ Surrounded _

_ Alone _

_ No matter where you are now, you’re going to end this all alone _

  
  
  
  
  
  


_...end all  _ what,  _ exactly? _

  
  


“Snow?”

Simon started, snapping his head up to look at Baz, sat across the table from him, a bite of chocolate chip pastry halfway to his mouth— posh fucker that he is, ate the cake with a fork and knife on a real plate when Simon just unwrapped it and started shovelling the food in.

“Yeah? Sorry, I spaced out.”

“No, really?” Baz smirked— for a split second, as he often does, Simon was able to catch the slightest glimpse of the angry, hollow-hearted enemy he’d always seen Baz as— not in the sense that he is still the villain, but in the sense that in the midst of every fight, Simon would begin to realize that it was quite unfair that such a villainous person, sporting a soul so rigid with hatred, was so beautiful.

And Baz is still beautiful. And sometimes Simon still wondered about it.

And sometimes Simon still wondered how he ended up in Baz’s life— now not out of contempt, but out of wonder.

“I was thinking, sort of, about—” a ding cut him off— coming from the laundry closet, half a step down from the rest of the flat, always smelling of lavender and detergent and cologne. 

Baz’s cologne— and now, sometimes, more increasingly, Simon’s soap.

“Let me get that,” Simon stood from the table as calmly as his jerky limbs could manage and stepped down to the laundry closet, bare feet touching the cool wooden floorboards and situating himself on the rug to push the towels that had been spinning in the dryer into a white basket.

A small, white towel tumbled out of the fold and into Simon’s lap, and he held it up, noticing a ragged edge to the fabric. A very distinct cut into the side of the towel made something suddenly clear to Simon: This was the towel Baz had used to wash the dried blood off of Simon’s face when they first got back to the London flat after the attacks on Watford, all those months ago. The fabric had snagged on a jagged nail sticking out of the door of the linen closet, and tore. Baz had used it to wash Simon’s face anyway. 

He’d used this towel since then, to dry off his face after getting out of the shower, skin red and ruddy from the heat pouring onto him. To wipe up a spill of shampoo on the bathroom counter. 

Something inside of Simon prompted him to, for whatever reason, lift the towel to his nose and inhale.

Simon breathed into the fabric of the fresh, white towel, and it filled him with the memories of using it—  _ delicate fingers brushing his curls out of his eyes  _ —paired with the scent of the fabric softener and the lingering traces of Baz’s cologne from when he was the one carrying and folding from the basket. 

“Snow?”

Simon turned his head slightly, over to Baz, who sat on the step with an eyebrow cocked and a confused half-smile spread across his lips. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve…’”Simon began, unsure what he  _ was  _ doing. “I’ve missed this.”

“Missed what?”

Simon glanced at the basket in his lap. “Fresh laundry.”

“Fresh laundry?”

“Yeah.” Simon goes silent. “Yeah. When— when we were at Watford, it would always get delivered to us every week, you remember? In a basket at the ends of our beds. And— and it would always smell so clean and fresh and— and I was talking to my therapist, and she thinks I associate certain arbitrary things with positive or negative memories and I don’t know if that’s it but detergent smells like home.” A pause. Deep inhale. “You. Like you. Like you make me— like. I’m here, and I’m home. But when you aren’t here, with me, I’m— I’m not.”

Simon doesn’t know how long he sat on the floor in the hallway with his head on Baz’s chest, and Baz’s arms wrapped around his waist. But he does know that eventually, he got up, finished his breakfast, and together the two of them decided to take a walk before meeting Penny for a late lunch. He does know that he went almost 12 hours before feeling any kind of all-consuming panic, and he does know that he was not losing his mind.

Not yet, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> jesus it took me like five months to write that. I've been in a funk since, like, forever. please come scream at/with me on Discord and leave a comment if you liked this!! they really are my lifeblood.


End file.
